


pressure

by mitzvahmelting



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Los Angeles Dodgers, Self-Esteem Issues, just needed some validation and platonic cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: Game 2 of the World Series.If you're not good enough... this is where you find out.





	pressure

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't as rounded as the first draft but i'm keeping the addition because of some of the character work in it
> 
> probably going to write a different story about these two (especially about chase) but this was a good exercise re: characterization and voice.

He hates taking this shit too seriously. He always tries to, you know, cheer up the team, rally them out of a loss. Dancing, silly spray, the banana suit… anything to break the tension.

Game 1 of the NLCS last year, they’d gone down 2 in the 4th. Everyone was all clenched up, talking mutedly about whether they should pull Clayton out early, and Kiké hadn’t had the patience for shit like that. He stood, started clapping, started hollering and trying to get the guys up off the bench. Davey had turned on him in disgust, “Kiké, I don’t mind you doin’ that shit in the regular season but we’re getting serious here, don’t you see this is serious?”

Kiké remembers walking right up to Davey. “Honey, people in my hometown are pulling bodies out of rubble, and I’m here playing baseball. I know what’s serious, do you?”

It was some sort of twisted relief to go into the postseason with the kind of clearer perspective offered by three weeks spent inundated with images of the ruins of home. They still fuckin’ lost, though, so maybe he should’ve… maybe he should’ve been more serious, more focused, and…

It’s a game, it’s just a game.

No one said to him “If we’d won the World Series, you would’ve had more money to send back home,” but he was definitely thinking that come Christmas. He eventually rallied his courage to go to the chief with his metaphorical hat in his hands, asking for a donation. So, Mr. Hot Shot CEO gives $2 million to the hurricane relief efforts, and then when Kiké’s salary arbitration comes around, he settles for $1.6 mil. Quid pro quo.

Anyway.

He hates taking this shit too seriously.

It’s different this year, though. Corey’s riding the bench. Davey put Madson in to pitch last night despite everyone begging him not to, including fucking Madson, and then they gave up 3 runs. And Kiké’s gone 3 for 31 in the postseason, with 12 goddamn strikeouts, he just can’t, can’t hit the _fucking_ ball and…

So, the dugout’s been real quiet. No one’s feeling too great about any of this. When Davey’s making calls, he’s talking to guys directly instead of shouting onto the field. He’s talking in his low “this is serious” voice. It’s bad.

Kiké doesn’t wanna be here; he wants to be in bed under the duvet, hiding. That’d be easier.

Getting this far into the postseason, the pressure is building up in his lungs. If they lose the World Series two years in a row? If the salary guys take a look at his performance in these games that really matter, and they decide he’s not worth the investment? Shuttle him off to another team – again, from Houston to Miami to L.A. to somewhere else because no one really _wants_ him, he’s not good enough to stay. Not good enough when it counts.

Before he’s on deck, Davey pulls him aside. “I don’t wanna see you swinging wildly,” he says, “We’ve got men on base. You’ve gotta show me you can take your time with it. Every chance at the plate is like gold, Kiké, you’ve gotta take it seriously. No guarantees you get another chance.”

“Fantastic, that’s so great to hear from my manager,” Kiké mutters, tugging on his gloves.

Davey grabs his shoulder. “You hear me?” he demands.

“I hear you.”

Then Chris walks and loads the bases, Kemp takes the sac fly, and… And.

They haven’t been ahead _once_ this series, and this is where he’s supposed to do it.  He’s supposed to get an RBI, supposed to make shit happen.

And he takes his time with it. Watches a ball whizz past.

Second pitch is called a strike, which it _was,_ it was a strike. He just watched it go by. Tells himself, _get with it, come on._

Third is a ball, inside and down. He takes a deep breath. Spins the bat over his shoulder. Screws his eyes shut to clear the moisture.

Then – he swings. Misses. Scoreboard calls it a 94mph fastball. From the dugout, Davey’s signing at him, _take your time._

This is what keeps happening, over and over again during the postseason. He knows how to hit the ball, why can’t he do it when it really matters? When he’s really focused on doing things right, why does everything go wrong?

He’s getting ready to swing at the next pitch. Foul it off. Stay alive. He’s scared as shit that he’s gonna get caught looking, which is… that’s just so much worse than swinging out. He’s not hesitant like that. Not a pussy.

Not a – not a strike. He pulls himself back at the last second, checks his swing. Changeup. Way off the plate – he can do this, he can – Full count. Full count. Full count.

 

It doesn’t go as planned.

He fouls off three times. All of them were over the plate, though – there’s nothing to be done for it, really. He wasn’t gonna walk on them. Just wants to stay alive. Motions to the ump for extra time to throw off the tempo.

But there’s this nagging defeatist energy in his head that he can’t shake. He knows he’s gonna screw up before it even happens. It’s too fast. He can’t hit it.

He swings and strikes out. 94mph fastball.

 

It’s not the anger that’s the problem. Kiké’s been angry before, angry at a call, angry at the other team trolling, angry at the way the world works. And usually he can go in the locker room and shake things off, literally, jump up and down and _shake_ off that negative energy. He can put on a brave face to keep his teammates’ spirits up, keep everyone loose and happy.

It’s not the anger that’s the problem, it’s everything _around_ the anger. Like the fact that despite the pat on the back, he can tell Davey’s disappointed in him. The fact that he probably won’t be put in to play next game, or that he might even get taken out tonight. The fact that his glasses keep fogging up, that his eyes are watering with frustrated tears that he’s trying desperately to hide from the rest of the dugout…

And there’s this _pressure_ in his chest, this physical ache of shame. If he could just get rid of that, if he could just feel physically normal, then maybe he could handle the rest. But it’s suffocating, it makes it hard to breathe, and…

Before he can crouch down to take off his shin guards, there’s a hand on his shoulder. “C’mere,” says Chase, leading him out of the dugout, back through the hallway towards the lockers. His other teammates don’t even look up as he passes them on the bench, offering only a few mournful nods of acknowledgment without eye contact.

The sound of the stadium dims behind them, as Kiké tries to shrug off the hand, “Look, man, I’m really not looking for a lecture right now, gotta cheer on Yasi—”

“Shut up,” says Chase. Not coldly, but it’s a weird thing to hear from him. Kiké shuts his mouth. He lets himself be led further and further back down the hall – they haven’t got long, whatever Chase wants from him. He’s gonna need to get back on the field for the 5th or Davey will kill him.

They can still hear the cheering, but it’s dampened enough by the distance and concrete that for the first time all night, Kiké feels like he can hear himself think. That’s not really a good thing. Better to drown it all out. Chase stops pushing him forward, instead pulling Kiké around to face him. “What,” Kiké snaps.

Then he sees Chase’s face. Kind eyes. Fucking old man – makes guilt bubble up in Kiké’s stomach. For disappointing him. For snapping at him. Chase gets both hands on Kiké’s shoulders and Kiké just feels… small, under that weight. “You’re all up in your head,” Chase tells him – there’s concern in his voice, loaded and familiar. “This happens to other guys, it doesn’t happen to you. What’s going on?”

Kiké crosses his arms tight over his chest. “It’s the fucking World Series, papi. You and Davey can’t keep putting me out there if I’m on a losing streak. Put Belli in or something.”

But instead of taking the defensive sub suggestion to heart, Chase just hunches over to squint directly at Kiké. “What is this?” he asks. “It’s like you swallowed a lemon.”

“I… what?”

“Go back to bananas or something, buddy. Sour doesn’t suit you.” The crack of a smile.

Kiké shoves him away. “This isn’t _funny,_ man, this is serious. This is where it matters. It’s not time for jokes.”

But Chase doggedly holds onto Kiké’s shoulders, refusing to be moved. “It’s not time for a crisis of self-doubt, either,” he points out. “Is it?”

“What?”

“Is the World Series a good time to have a crisis of self-doubt?”

“No, it’s not,” Kiké grumbles. But it’s one thing to know that, another thing entirely to make the guilt stop eating away at his chest. “I get it, alright. Enough.”

He tries to push Chase away again, but Chase just puts a hand on Kiké’s jaw, gently nudges him to make eye contact. His hand is warm, stupidly warm considering he’s just been sitting in the dugout doing nothing. So warm that it makes some of the knots unravel in Kiké’s stomach, makes some of the wetness gather at his lashes again. He tries to blink it away. Chase murmurs softly to him, “Hey.”

“’m sorry,” Kiké chokes out, “’m sorry, ‘m trying.”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Chase tugs him into a hug. Kiké’s control over his emotions is totally shot, then, his lip is wobbling and he’s tucking his face against Chase’s sweatshirt and it’s warm and. God. God, he just wanted to go hide in his bed, you know, and Chase’s sweatshirt is second best to that. Maybe it’s even better. To be held like this, to breathe in the scent of polyester-nylon that still smells like the plastic packaging, and the chill of the Boston air, and Chase’s breath against his ear, whispering to him, “ _Shh, shh_ , I’ve got you, buddy, it’s alright…”

He wants to stay here. Where it’s warm. If he could just stop time and stay here, right here, then maybe he could pull himself together. Maybe he could go back to the ballgame feeling like himself again.

“It’s just a game,” Chase says, gently. “Just a baseball game. Just like you’ve been playing all your life. You’re gonna be okay.”

The noise of the crowd swells into a roar. Price must’ve secured the out. Kiké sniffles, starts pushing himself away from the hug. “Let go,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face, “let go of me, old man, I gotta go…”

Chase grabs him, presses his lips firmly against the side of Kiké’s forehead. Makes the tears swell up again, and Kiké’s trying to tamp it down, trying to catch his breath in the face of this… this warmth from Chase, this warmth that Kiké doesn’t deserve. When Chase finally lets go, Kiké stumbles away back down the hall towards the dugout. He doesn’t say anything to Chase as he leaves – can’t trust his voice to say much at all. He just grabs his glove, tries to steady his breathing.

He does feel… lighter. All the ache that was in his chest is in his throat now, which he guesses is an improvement. Scoreboard says Yasi pulled another RBI out of the inning, which is… that’s good. They’re ahead, for once.

But the pressure is kind of… it’s weird, like Chase’s body heat melted it away, and now Kiké’s just. Just throwing the ball back and forth with Yasi and Chris. Both of them are smiling, and they’re far enough away that they probably can’t tell how red Kiké’s face is right now under the glasses. Probably can’t tell how lost he feels.

The ball feels good in his glove. Like he’s stopped thinking about everything else. It’s just a ballgame, like every other ballgame he’s ever played. He’s done this almost every day of his life. He knows what he’s doing, and as for the consequences… that’s for later, after the game is over. That’s when he can remember that it’s a World Series game. That’s when he can remember everything that’s on the line.

Right now. Right now he’s just gonna play defense and. And try to stop crying, so at least, at least he can see the fucking ball. It’s gonna… it’s gonna be okay.

 

There’s something oppressive about playing Fenway. The chill in the air, that big wall looming. The noise.

By the 7th, Kiké’s done. Davey gives him a pat on the back, tells him to take a seat. Muncy’s gonna pinch-hit. In the regular season Kiké and Max were comparable, but Max has been much stronger in the postseason. Better at handling the weight of the world.

Kiké has some water. Pulls on his sweatshirt, and the beanie. He really ought to be standing up on the wall with the rest of the guys but… well. He wouldn’t be very good at cheering them on tonight. The game got to him, everything got to him, he’s all messed up in his head, and he doesn’t need to bring that bad energy anywhere close to his teammates. He wants to quarantine himself.

Chase joins him on the bench, and Kiké doesn’t have it in him to push Chase away again. Chase has been spending most of the postseason games with Corey – the two of them, always in each other’s pockets, side by side leaning up on the wall. And the whole game Chase is teaching Corey things, keeping him invested, keeping him learning even as he’s still healing from the surgery. The two of them, it’s not like they’ve got anything better to do, besides watch the game and try to piece together everything they can learn from it.

Chase is keeping Corey in good spirits, and that’s what matters, really.

But Corey’s standing with the bullpen, and Chase is sitting here.

“You’ve been having a hard time,” says Chase.  He’s not touching Kiké like earlier, not even looking at him, but that’s probably generosity on Chase’s part, like he knows it’s hard to make eye contact in moments like this. “You seemed so happy in Milwaukee.”

 _Yeah, because we won,_ he wants to say, but that’s not really the point. Winning game 7, it was a celebration, yeah, and Kiké loves parties, loves inciting his teammates to party harder, to dance and drink and… some of them, they’re not into parties. Kiké pushes them into it because, you know. They hustled out there. They deserve to feel that kind of jubilation, for just a little while.

 _It wasn’t about me,_ is a better explanation. _I was happy for them._

Instead he just hums, and he doesn’t say anything to Chase. Can’t figure out what there is left to say.

Then Chase says, “I’m sorry it took me so long to notice.”

Somewhere up in the batters’ box, Muncy strikes out. Kiké stares at his knees, the grass stains in the grey uniform. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “It’s fine,” he settles on, chewing hard on the inside of his cheek and looking around for where the chewing gum is in the dugout, he needs some.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Yasi grounds out, and then Grandal goes to bat instead of Austin. Between pitches, Davey glances back at Kiké and Chase from the stairs. Hard to read what that look’s supposed to mean. Not judgmental or anything, just… noticing them. He’s got a game to run, though, so he turns his attention back to Grandal.

Why is he feeling this way? Is there even a way to explain it to Chase, the way it feels to be here in the dugout as everything starts crumbling around them? Grandal strikes out. The dugout empties as everyone else takes the field for the 8th. And Kiké doesn’t move, because he’s out now, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be put back in.

 _It’s different,_ he thinks. _It’s different from the regular season. In the regular season it doesn’t matter, we can all pretend I’m fire. But here, it’s like… the postseason’s a spotlight on every blemish, that’s what the coaches said. If you’re not good enough… this is where you find out._

Chase sighs. “Kiké Hernandez, actually _quiet_ in the dugout,” he teases. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Kiké tells him to shut up. Rubs a hand over his face, under his glasses, tries to get the soreness in his sinuses to dissipate.

And then, then there’s Chase’s hand on his back. He can’t feel much through the barrier of his sweatshirt, but… the firm weight of it, the pressure, it… it helps. He glances over at Chase, and the old man is watching the game, but he’s kinda stroking his hand up and down between Kiké’s shoulder blades. Just rubbing his back, like you do with a sad kid.

Kiké takes in a shaky breath. “…Thanks,” he says, softly.

Maybe this is selfish. To want this attention, this affection… maybe it’s a distraction, sapping more resources his team would better utilize in service of the game, not Kiké’s emotions.  Chase is probably needed elsewhere, or maybe if he was focusing his energy on studying the other team instead of caring for Kiké, he’d be able to spot something crucial, something that would save the series. Something that would save tonight.

Chase shifts closer. Wraps an arm around Kike. Continues the rubbing motion up and down Kiké’s bicep, and it… it feels like being held, like the hug from earlier, but no longer brief and fleeting. The sound of the stadium and the deficit on the scoreboard both kind of fade into the background. “Breathe,” says Chase, just a little bit sharply, like a directive. Kiké manages a deep breath, and on the exhale, he leans more of his weight against Chase’s side, and Chase just holds him tighter.

Back at the stairs, Davey glances over his shoulder at them once more. A gesture passes between him and Chase, but Kiké doesn’t catch it – instead his eyes flutter shut, and he tries to focus on another deep breath. Meditation, that’s what they’re supposed to have learned how to do. Mindfulness.

Bone-tired exhaustion isn’t quite the same as that, but it does make it easier to let go of… all his thinking.

“It’s alright, kid,” says Chase, and there’s some piece of Kiké that believes him, in a way. “We’ll get you right. We’ll get you right again.”

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you liked it!


End file.
